At The Cemetery
by Gypsy Love
Summary: Instead of Joey finding Craig at the cemetery, it's Albert.
1. Chapter 1

Things had narrowed down to a point. Craig could see the faces of the kids in the firelight, the shadows and light flickering and changing. It was cold. Not winter cold but September night cold and he knew he should be in a warm living room watching some dumb reality show. He knew where he should be.

The fires in the cans kept him warm and it made this Toronto street look like England. Like London. He wished it was, wished he was in any other city in any other time.

He put his hands out, palms outward, to feel the warmth from the fires. He was watchful. The other kids around these fires seemed to have been out here for days, for weeks, their faces smudged, the line of dirt visible under their nails. They'd come near him and he'd flinch away.

The roll of money in his pocket felt like salvation. He'd take a bus to British Columbia, to the United States of America, to anywhere. He couldn't go home again. It was too late. He wished he'd taken a jacket. The long sleeved shirt was thin and wasn't warm enough despite the fire. He stayed in the circle of its warmth.

What was his father doing? Talking on the phone to the cops, sending out search parties? Or was he just waiting for him to come home on his own, like he always had before?

He could feel the eyes of the kids around these fires, he could feel their eyes turning to him and he looked down, looked away. Hugged himself and shivered because he knew he would be leaving the warmth of these fires soon.

The cemetery was ahead, he could see the headstones even in the dim light. If his mother was alive things would be so much better. Even after all these years he couldn't believe she was gone. He kneeled down, reached his hand out toward her name etched in the stone.

"Craig," He hadn't heard the footsteps approaching him. He'd been oblivious, wrapped up in the name on the headstone, wrapped up in his memories of his mother's face and her voice and the way her hand had felt on his forehead when he was little.

He looked up at his father standing there, standing over him, and he didn't say anything. He stared in disbelief. Felt fear fill his veins like cold water. He stood up and was ready to run. His father grabbed the back of his shirt as he turned and yanked him back. Craig closed his eyes, anticipating. But he wasn't hit, just held onto, and when he opened his eyes he could see his father's fancy car in the distance.

"Let me go," he said through clenched teeth, staring at his mother's name on the stone. Maybe she was watching all of this.

"Craig, let's go home," his father said, holding onto both of his arms as Craig twisted in his grasp, trying to get away.

"No, leave me alone! Let me go!" It was no use. He couldn't get away. He wasn't strong enough. Despite twisting and kicking in his father's grasp, he couldn't get away.

"I know you're angry with me, and maybe I deserve it, but Craig, I'm not perfect-"

He had stopped struggling but Albert still held both of his arms in his firm grasp. Not perfect, Craig thought, and almost laughed.

"Let's just go home, you can cool down-" Albert said, starting to walk toward the car, pulling Craig along with him.

"No. I don't want to go home. Nothing's going to change-" As he said that Albert's grip on his arms tightened painfully and Craig winced, but he didn't care. He was beyond caring. Nothing would change. Ever.

"Things will change," Albert said, and his grip loosened again as they reached the car.

"Get in," he told Craig, opening the door and blocking him from taking off. He looked beyond him at the rows of perfect tombstones, at the dim light glinting off the polished surfaces. He didn't want to get in the car. Albert pushed him into the front seat, swung the door shut. The car had locks that the driver controlled, so Craig couldn't unlock the door. He slumped against the door, feeling the cool glass against his cheek. He could see his father's hands on the steering wheel. He could feel the fear that centered in his chest, making it hard to breathe.


	2. Chapter 2

The car glided silently over the Toronto streets, past office buildings and apartment buildings and townhouses, into the upscale residential neighborhoods. Craig was finding it hard to breathe. He kept glancing at his father's impassive face.

In the driveway, the car slowing to a stop, Albert's expression grew sterner and Craig looked at him wide-eyed. He had so wanted to get away. The passenger door unlocked, Craig reviewed his options. He could run. Maybe he could outrun him. But he'd ran once and been caught, what made him think it would work this time?

"Let's go," Albert said, and held onto Craig's arm all the way to the front door. The glassy fear consumed him and he took these shallow breaths, trying not to feel the pressure from his father gripping his arm.

In the house, the thick carpet beneath his feet, the dim recessed lighting from the kitchen visible in the hallway, Craig watched his father take off his coat and hang it in the closet. Methodical. He thought of the chaos at Joey's house, how he had been enthralled by that chaos. He just stood there by the door, not taking off his sneakers, not wanting to stay.

"Craig, come here," Albert said from the kitchen, and Craig sighed. Felt his heart beating painfully. Anger and fear twisting inside of him, making him miserable. He remembered the rush of wind from the train, wished that Sean hadn't pulled him away.

He went into the kitchen, sat at the table. Saw the stern look in Albert's eyes. Even behind the glasses that look was clear.

"Listen to me," Albert said, drumming his fingers on the table top. Craig watched him do that, watched the rings his father wore flash in the light, "you can't take off like that, you can't run away. There are rules here and you need to start following them,"

Craig stared at the table, at Albert's fingers as they tapped the glossy wood surface. He remembered the golf club tapping against his bedroom door and then slamming through it, the noise startling him, making him jump back. He remembered the way his dark room had looked, everything turned over and destroyed.

"I know I lose my patience sometimes, but you have to understand that work is very stressful. You have to start following the rules around here, Craig," This speech was delivered through clenched teeth, the words getting louder and faster and Craig was afraid to look at him.

"Do you understand me?" That was it. That was the phrase he had dreaded, and he did look up at him. Albert's fists were clenched tight but remained at his sides, and Craig stared at those fists, took shallow breaths and felt light headed, and finally answered his father.

"Y-yeah, yes, I understand,"

Upstairs, he examined the gauges in his door, ran his hand along the splintered wood. Licked his lips. In his room his locks were intact and the window had been nailed shut. He tugged at it, uncertain why it wouldn't open and then he saw the nails.

"Damn it,"

He kicked off his sneakers, laid on the bed. Nothing would change. Maybe he could go to Children's Aid. Maybe he could run away again. His father couldn't keep him in this house forever. After school on Monday he could run away again. He still had the money.

In his room he hadn't heard the knock at the door, but he did hear the muffled voices from the front hall. He opened his door, crept to the top of the stairs and listened like he used to do when his parents fought when he was little.

"That's ridiculous," he heard his father say, and someone answered, "that's the report we got, and-" his father cut them off.

"Well, that's ridiculous. I would never hurt my son,"

"Sir, is he here?" It was a cop. Craig could tell. He held his breath, listening.

"No. He's out,"

"Where is he? The report we got was that he ran away,"

"He did not run away," The tone in his father's voice was that tone he got when he was dealing with inferiors. Condescending. It made Craig cringe.

It occurred to him that he could go downstairs now, tell them that they were right, Albert did hurt him, he did run away. Tell them to help him. He could do that. But he was too scared. He sat at the top of the stairs, hardly daring to breath until they left, and he heard the hard slam of the door behind them.

He had gone back into his room by the time Albert came up the stairs. There was nowhere to go. He had been wrong about the locks. They were all busted. The window was nailed shut.

"You told Joey I beat you?" his father said, and the anger in his eyes, on his face, was overwhelming.

"N-no, no, I didn't-"

Albert came at him, fists raised. Craig squeezed his eyes shut and raised his arms up to protect his face as the punches and kicks pummeled him. He might have pleaded with Albert to stop, but that might have only been in his head.


	3. Chapter 3

Squeezing his eyes shut, feeling the kicks and punches slamming into him, and he tried to curl up to block some of them. He heard the noises he was making, little cries and groans of pain but he couldn't stop. He couldn't control anything.

He barely noticed when it stopped, when his father stormed away, his footsteps heavy in the hall and on the stairs. He stayed on the floor, the rug was thick and comfortable. He could feel each and every injury, felt his body sending out those natural pain killers, endorphins, making him feel sleepy. And he didn't care, not anymore. This was how it was going to be. Nothing could change it. Nothing at all.

Sometime later, minutes or hours, he couldn't tell, he crawled into bed. Slept late the next day, it was Saturday. He didn't want to get out of bed.

When he went downstairs he could smell the breakfast smells, bacon and waffles and syrup. Fresh orange juice in the pitcher in the middle of the table, a plate of toast.

"Craigger," his dad said, and Craig looked at him warily. The food, the breakfast feast, his father's way of making things up. Cooking him food he liked, giving him money, renting videos, being nice. But it was temporary. It wouldn't last, Craig knew it now. And when it ended what would he find? The strap? The kicks and punches and being thrown down to the floor? Being scared, feeling worthless and helpless. He knew what he would find.

"Hey, dad," he said, sitting down slowly, feeling hurt, wincing. His father noticed the slow movements and the look of pain when he sat, and he tried not to see it. Albert shook his head and turned back to the stove.

Craig wasn't so hungry. His stomach felt shriveled. But he ate slowly and it did taste good. Sipped his juice and very carefully put the glass down on the coaster.

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School on Monday and his father drove him, like usual. He'd been nice all weekend. He was still nice, his look unreadable behind the dark glasses. But he gave Craig his slight smile and told him to have a good day.

"Yeah, I will," Craig said, getting out of the car, carrying his bag over his shoulder. He walked toward the school, not noticing the concerned stares of Manny and Emma behind him.

Toward the end of the day in Simpson's Media class, Craig almost falling asleep as he listened to the soothing tones of Snake's voice, there was a knock on the classroom door. Through the square glass window in the upper part of the door Craig could have sworn he saw Joey.

Simpson excused himself and went out in the hall for a minute, and it was Joey. Craig could hear their voices as they talked quietly. He couldn't make out the words, just the tones and inflections. He peered anxiously toward the hall, certain that they were discussing him.

Simpson came back in, the worry in his blue eyes like an easy map to read and he looked at Craig. Craig looked away.

"Craig," Simpson said, and Craig looked up.

"Joey's in the hall, he wants to talk to you,"

"Okay," Craig said, getting up slowly, trying not to look like he was in pain. But he was. He couldn't take deep breaths and everything ached.

In the hall, surrounded by the lockers and trophy cases, the sunlight falling on the hallway floor and shining everywhere, Craig looked down while Joey started talking.


	4. Chapter 4

He stared at the floor. Couldn't look at Joey.

"Craig," Joey said, and at his name he looked up.

"Sean said you stood in front of the train-"

"No," Craig said, ready to deny any and everything. If you deny things it's like they never happened.

"Craig-"

"Sean's a liar," Craig said, and he saw the concerned look in Joey's eyes, he saw his hand trying to reach for him and Craig moved away.

"Look, he said your dad-"

"My dad doesn't do anything," Craig said quick, cutting him off. Even as they were speaking he could feel the bruises, could feel the ache of the punches and kicks, the pull in his side.

"He doesn't hit you?"

Craig closed his eyes, thought of how Sean had said it like that at the train tracks. And it was because he'd given himself away. He'd asked if Sean's parents had hit him and he'd wanted him to say yes, to say that was why he had to move away. He didn't want to be alone.

"No," he said, eyes still closed.

"Look, Craig, your mom had said your dad wasn't abusive toward you and I went along with it, she wanted to believe that so badly and I…I couldn't go against her wishes or her will. But I think, I thought she was wrong and I still think it…so if it ever gets to be too much for you you can come to me, I'll be there. My door will always be open, okay? Alright?"

Craig had opened his eyes and was trying not to cry. He could feel the tears sort of burning behind his eyes. There was a part of him that wanted to admit it, wanted to tell Joey that he was right, that it was bad at home. That it was worse than anyone thought. But he couldn't.

"Alright," Craig answered him, his voice thick, and he looked away.

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Home alone. The T.V. wasn't on and the silence was oppressive. It filled the house like the sunlight, cloying and still. Craig sat at the kitchen table, staring into space. He wouldn't admit his dad hit him, wouldn't admit he was depressed. Wouldn't admit the lack of energy and interest he felt. Wouldn't admit anything.

He almost didn't answer the knock at the door. But after it went on awhile he rose, crossed the kitchen and the hall to the door and pulled on the handle. It was Sean.

"Uh, hey , Sean,"

"Hey. Is your dad here?" Sean looked serious, but he usually did. He was sort of a serious, look on the dark side kind of kid. Craig shook his head no. His dad wasn't there.

"Good. I'm coming in," He pushed past Craig and walked inside, and Craig shrugged. His dad would be at the hospital all night, but he probably wouldn't be thrilled that he had a friend over. He sat on the couch and flipped on the T.V., switched it to music videos. Their noise replaced the stillness. Craig sat in the chair.

"What's going on with you?" Sean said, his stare burning into him.

"Nothing," Craig said, "nothing,"


	5. Chapter 5

Sean sat on the couch, looked down. Craig noticed again how serious he looked. He looked away from him and turned to the T.V., the flashing images of the videos almost comforting.

"Listen, Craig, I should have told you something," he said, and now the videos faded away and Craig turned back to him. He felt kind of light headed. The bruises he had were just aching dully, a constant low level of pain that would fade in a day or two.

"Yeah, what?" Craig said, and it came out sounding gruffer than he had intended. He looked down at the little patch of rug between his feet.

"Uh, when I lived in Wasaga with my parents…they did hit me. My dad, mostly. And I had to get away. It was just getting worse and worse, and I always had told myself that they'd stop drinking, that things would change. But it was like I was living in this dream world, ignoring the real world. In the real world my dad had a beer the very second he got up and by late afternoon he was onto the hard stuff and by night time he was either passed out or screaming at me and my mother or hitting me or her or both of us. That was the real world,"

Craig kept looking down, noticing the individual thick threads of the carpet, that creamy off white shade. He swallowed and the sound was loud to his ears.

"I know your dad probably doesn't drink," Sean said, "I don't know, maybe he does. I know he's all successful and everything. But I think he's hurting you because you kind of act like I used to, and why would you stand in front of that train? Something has to be really wrong. I just, I thought I should tell you if it'll help you to…I don't know. Get help. Leave. Something. But let me tell you, it probably won't just get better on it's own,"

He couldn't really say anything or move his eyes from the spot he had chosen to focus on. He closed his eyes and wished that things were different. Wished that his dad was better. Like T.V. dads were. Like he actually sometimes was. Craig wished those times when his dad was cool were the real times. But Sean was right. It was a dream world. He had to face the real world.

"How'd, uh, how'd you leave?" Craig said, his voice scratchy and catching.

"I took off one night and went to live with my brother,"

Craig nodded. He could take off. He could take off tonight and go. He could go to British Columbia. But British Columbia wasn't a solution. Not really.

"I think maybe Joey could help…" Sean said, and tried to get Craig to look at him. Craig looked at him quick and then looked down again.

"Yeah, maybe," he said tonelessly.

Sean stood up, stood awkwardly between the living room and the hallway, hands in his pockets.

"Uh, listen, Craig, I gotta go. But think about what I said. It won't get better staying here,"

Sean left, head down in the wind, walking home. Craig pulled the curtain a little and watched him. He thought about what Joey had said at the school today. So everyone knew what a fucked up life he had, and that made him feel bad. He hadn't done such a great job of hiding things after all.

He let the curtain fall back and he left the window. Muted the T.V. and now all the screams and singing were silent, like old silent movies or mimes. He'd seen mimes in Montreal once, their faces all painted white and red mouths and black arched eyebrows, mocking everyone who passed by with their silence.


	6. Chapter 6

Craig stayed in the living room, the room getting dim around him, the T.V. going and going. He thought about what Sean said, how it wouldn't get better. He knew that. He'd known that for awhile. He flipped through the channels, not able to focus on any of the shows. Squawking people hawking different things that didn't matter. News, depressing shit. Sitcoms and canned laughter.

He just didn't have the energy to run away again, to leave again. What would prevent his father from just coming after him? He'd always done it before and then the beatings were worse. Craig rubbed his side, winced at the tenderness that refused to fade. How many times could his blood vessels be expected to knit themselves back together?

He should leave, he knew that. He could go to Joey's. Joey said he could go there, it would be okay. But there was this mental block, this fear of the repercussions that was stopping him. He still wanted to believe that things could be okay.

It was getting late. He just let it get later and later, not moving, his eyes tracking the tiny people trapped in the glass of the T.V. screen. He didn't have the energy to run away again. He didn't have the energy to do anything. His eyelids got heavy, the sounds on the T.V. making less sense, becoming a comfortable babble in the background of his mind.

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"Craig!" Craig bolted awake at the sound of his name. He'd slept in the living room, slept in his clothes, the T.V. still blaring away. He felt stiff from laying on the couch, felt uncomfortable being in his clothes all night. The sunlight pouring into the room was like an incrimination.

He looked up at his father, barely awake, barely comprehending that it was tomorrow.

"Dad, uh, hi-"

"Have you been down here all night?" Albert said, loosening his tie. Craig saw that look in his eyes, that narrowed eyed look that could mean trouble.

"Uh, well, yeah-"

"With the T.V. on all night?" The questions were taking on that sarcastic tone that worried Craig, that preceded some of the worst episodes with his father.

"Yeah, I guess I just fell asleep-" He was sitting, looking up at his father. He felt the fear like ants crawling over his skin. He wanted to get away.

"Jesus, Craig! Wasting all this electricity, sleeping in your clothes?" His father was staring at him incredulously. Craig was backing up, moving away from him on the couch. He saw the stairs from the corner of his eye and he was ready to run to them if he had to. He'd run, lock himself in his room.

"Uh, yeah, I'm, um, I'm sorry…" Always apologizing. Always begging forgiveness. Always second guessing his actions. It was giving him a headache. It was making his stomach hurt.

"Turn off the T.V. Go upstairs," Albert said, suddenly dismissing him. Craig let out his pent up breath, the relief so acute as to actually be felt, his muscles loosening. He grabbed for the remote and flipped the T.V. off and then he went upstairs, almost running up the stairs.

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In his room, the locks locked. He wasn't taking any chances. He didn't trust his father, not anymore. He'd beat him over leaving the T.V. on all night. He licked his lips and thought about gong to Joey's house again. How nice would that be? How nice would it be to not have to worry like this all of the time, every second of every day?


	7. Chapter 7

Craig kept jerking awake in class. The sound of the heaters, that soft buzz and rush of hot air, the teachers' voices in their steady monotones, he kept slipping into sleep. The way the sky looked outside the windows, so bright blue, hurting his eyes if he looked at it too long, that made him sleepy, too.

"Craig," Mr. Simpson's soft voice, the gentle shaking of his shoulder. Craig blinked awake, uncertain of where he was or who was talking to him. School. Media Immersion. He'd fallen asleep again.

"Sorry, I just had this late night…" trailing it off, a lie anyway. Mr. Simpson looked at him kind of sadly and Craig knew he knew. Joey told him. He remembered when he fell asleep in his class on the first day of school and he slammed his locker lock down on the desk in front of him. That's when he thought he was just a regular kid, just sleeping because he stayed up late playing video games or something.

He looked at Emma when he saw her in the halls, thinking of how she had such a cool mom who listened to her and didn't get so angry. At the barbecue at her house he'd been so jealous, so jealous of her and the adults in her life. He could taste the jealousy, it filled his mouth.

He ate lunch with Sean, and Sean didn't push it. Sean played things cool, but Craig remembered what he said, how he had to leave his parents. He listened to the babble of all the conversations, he could hear them all at once and it made its own sound. He closed his eyes and it seemed to get louder. Things had to change. Today. There. He'd made a decision.

"You okay?" Sean said, swigging from his can of soda. Craig looked at him and nodded.

"Yeah. I'm good,"

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After school, the sun bright but cold. Craig felt the weight of his school bag over his shoulder. He walked the few blocks that it took to get to the car lot where Joey worked. He licked his lips and felt his heart beating, every thump echoing in his head. He felt fear but it was distant and small, like a little dot of fear on the horizon that he could block out if he put his hand up. It was time. Time to leave.

Joey noticed him while he was still outside the fence and he saw the slight surprise on Joey's face, saw him say something to the customers he was talking to, saw him excuse himself. He came over.

"Craig, uh, hi. What are you, uh, why are you here?" His tone was softly questioning, and he took Craig's arm and lead him to the little building that housed the office. Craig followed him in, and sat in the dim small room that smelled like cars. He looked at the glass paperweight that sat on Joey's desk.

Craig cleared his throat. Maybe this would be harder than he thought. He looked at the cheap pine paneling on the walls of the office, looked at the weird patterns of sun that fell on them through the windows.

"Joey, um, my dad, he, he…" Craig closed his eyes, felt tears wanting to start, "he hits me,"

He opened his eyes and saw Joey looking at him all sad and concerned. He let out his breath. He hated this. Hated this sympathy and pity, but what could he do? It was a pitiful pathetic situation.

"He hits me all the time and I, uh, I don't want to go back there,"

Joey nodded.

"Okay. Craig, it's okay, it'll be okay. You can stay with me tonight. I'll call your father and I'll take care of it. You'll be safe tonight, okay? Just, um, I'm gonna close up this place early and we'll go, okay?"

Craig nodded, feeling relief and fear course through him in equal measure.


	8. Chapter 8

He packed a quick bag, Joey was outside in the red car waiting for him. He could feel his heart beating, trying to beat right through his chest. His father would kill him. He'd come to Joey's and drag him home. He was convinced of this. But the ache in his side wasn't going away and every time he took off his shirt he saw those bruises in stark relief against his pale skin and he knew he had to leave. It was time to leave.

"Ready?" Joey said, his face concerned. Craig could see the concern in the squinting of his eyes, in the lines around his mouth and between his eyes.

"Yeah," He threw the bag in the backseat and climbed into the front, and Joey put it into reverse and backed out of the nice black driveway that was redone every two years, the green lawn coming right up to the edge.

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"Craig!" Angela was home with Emma, and she squealed when she saw him. Emma widened her eyes, taking in the serious look on his face and the full bag slung over his shoulder.

"Hi," she said quietly. He nodded at her.

Angela stood up and ran over to him, hugged him hard and he sucked in his breath because it hurt him. But he didn't want her to see. Emma saw. Emma took in the way he winced when Angela barreled into him. She looked down.

"Thanks, Emma," Joey said, and she stood up.

"No problem. I'm gonna take off. Lots of homework," she said, and she ruffled Angela's hair and said goodbye.

"Uh, bye, Craig," she said. Craig mumbled bye and disentangled himself from Angela's embrace.

Eating macaroni and cheese, listening to Angela's little voice talking about school and Emma and his mom, he could barely get the bites of macaroni and cheese down his throat. His father was going to kill him. He'd never forgive him for this. He couldn't believe he had done it. But he shook his head. Screw him. All he ever did was hit him all the time. He wasn't going to stay there.

"It's six," Craig said, nervous, looking at the clock. Joey glanced at the clock.

"Yeah. So?"

"So I'm supposed to be home at six," Craig said, pushing the food around his plate. He might have taken three or four bites. He couldn't eat anymore.

"He'll be mad. He'll know," Craig said, twisting the paper towel in his hands, breaking it into little pieces.

"I'll call him. Mind cleaning up in here?" Joey said, and Craig nodded. Cleaning up might keep his mind off of his impending doom.

Angela eagerly handed him the plates and he scraped the food into the garbage disposal. Joey had gone into another room to make his call. Craig wished he could hear what he was saying, to maybe gauge how it was going. It didn't matter. It didn't matter what his father said. He wasn't going back.

Scrape the plates, wash the dishes, clear the table, wipe it down. Craig did all these things and thought of Joey in the other room, thought of how impossible it was to argue with his father, to get any sort of point across. How could Joey win?

Angela had pulled out all these Barbies from a little suitcase, and they spilled onto the floor in a confusion of naked arms and legs and plastic torsos, matted yellow blond hair and vacant blue eyes.

"Craig!" she called, holding a Barbie in each hand, "come play!"

How he wished this was his life. Playing Barbies with Angie, helping Joey clean the kitchen, not feeling the fear at the pit of his stomach, not getting strapped and feeling the lash of the leather through his shirt. Not getting punched, feeling his muscles knot each time a blow came down. Not watching his father for the signs of anger and violence and not always looking for some way to escape. He didn't belong here in this comfortably messy house with toys all over the living room and drinks on top of tables and coffee tables, leaving their rings of condensation.


End file.
